Shade
by UntoldStories113
Summary: What had been the problem? Oh, whatever. Who cared, as long as there was a solution. (Art POV. Yes, you read that correctly.)


**Timeline note:** Set after the "Hide and Sneak" training scene. And also after chapter one of Snapshots.

**Note:** No, Art's hobby is not supposed to be some sort of horrible pun. It's a logical consequence of his expressiveness and eye for detail.

* * *

Sometimes, Art liked spacing out in the training sessions. It made them less exhausting. But it also made them less effective, he knew, _and_ his friends then had to work harder to make up for his lapse. So most of the time, he did his best to pay as much attention as he could.

He had done pretty well today. Mostly. Even though looking for a hiding place for one of the third turns was the last thing he remembered before the twins had shaken him awake and told him everyone else was going home.

As Art had had a good slumber, he was not as exhausted as the rest of them. In an attempt to tire himself out until that he could sleep, he had ended up painting something. So here he was, sprawled on the floor of the bedroom he shared with Don, lost in a sea of different-sized brushes, iridescent tubes of paint, and haphazardly arranged stacks of paper, trying to curve that one line just right.

This was actually not tiring at all, he had realized after about half an hour, but it was fun, so whatever. Except that his greens were almost empty. When had he bought those? They were not that old! He would have to ask Squishy's mom to pick up a few tubes. Different ones. Dark Moss, Shamrock, Myrtle, Olive… actually, when had he last had olives? They were tasty!

A little squeak and a slight stirring in the air told him that the door had been opened. "Hey," he greeted, not exactly interested in who came in. Whoever it was, that person was a dear friend, so all was good. Mildly frowning at the folds in a painted piece of fabric, he began to adjust the light incidence.

"Hello, Arthur." Don's voice. Art was a bit startled to discover him in the room. But, oh yeah, he had just come in.

"Finished with Automata Theory?" Art asked without turning around, because he knew that Don had been working on that essay for a week straight. And why was that texture in the upper right corner not cooperating about looking like wood?

"Not yet," Don answered a question Art did not remember, sounding a little strained. A moment later, a loud sucking noise and an unintelligible mumble gave away that he must have gotten stuck somewhere. "I put in a bit of extra training. What are you doing?"

"Painting!" Art exclaimed brightly, adding a tuft of grass. It was only after a few minutes of silence that he noticed Don had probably gathered that. He must have meant what the motive was. "You'll see," Art added, slightly out of context by now.

"What?" Don asked. "Oh, yeah. Sure." There was a faint creaking as he sat down on his bed.

For a moment, neither said anything. Art had to concentrate on the highlight in one of the eyes, anyway. "Extra training?" he finally asked.

"Don't you worry about it, sonny," Don gently deflected the question. "I got it."

Now Art abandoned the patch of sky he was working on to turn slightly and send a brief look at his friend, but he soon went back to arranging wisps of cloud. They had to look natural. Random. Too orderly and they would look fake. Then he remembered Don. "What do you need extra training on?"

Another creak, louder this time. Don seemed startled by the question. "Yeah, well," he finally chuckled, the fake nonchalance giving away his uneasiness, "can't have one of us getting stuck to the furniture in the event and being found by the referees immediately, right?"

Art mulled that over as he flicked his wrist a couple of times for a few quick strokes of fur. Dammit, that one had blown out of proportion. He would have to adjust the ones around it.

Why did Don not say anything? Ah, wait, right. Question. "But it's not like you can train that away or anything," Art pointed out. "What _did_ you train?" Oh, he had just realized that he had not actually wanted that orange skunk in the picture. Even though it was cute. But whatever, he could just paint a bag over it; he still needed one, anyway.

Don gave a sigh. But not an answer. Surely, he knew by now that they would get to the problem eventually, right? They always did. Art did not believe in giving up prematurely. "Well, I…" Another sigh. "I wouldn't wanna lose us the event, that's all," he finally muttered.

Ah. Don was having confidence issues. They had all been through them by now - except for Mike, of course - and there _was_ something to what Don was saying, but that was not the point. Not really. He just needed some cheering up.

So Art gave a smile as he squeezed the last drop of Forest Green out of its tube. "Nah, _you_ are awesome. _I'm_ the one who can't measure up to the rest of the group."

Don was silent for a moment, and Art realized that he should have turned around to make him _see_ the smile. Not seeing it kinda changed the context of the statement.

"That's not _true_, Arthur," Don finally argued, so upset that the emotion vibrated in his voice, "you're just… well…"

Inattentive? Art gave a shrug. "Sure it's true. We both know that." But that was okay. Every team had someone who was the least talented. It was not as if it was a mystery to him how everyone was extra relieved when he did something right. And there was no mistaking how much more often Mike reprimanded him. For spacing out, for messing up… But that _was_ okay. Art appreciated the honesty.

"And I'm pretty sure those suction cups will be a huge hit in the long run," he went on as he adjusted the yellow on one of the signboards.

A moment of silence from Don. "…you think so?" he finally asked hesitantly, as if he was still hoping Art had not caught on to his insecurity.

Art stuck his tongue out in concentration as he emptied half his tube of glitter on what he perceived an almost finished picture. No, he needed more. It would not be authentic if it was not enough. "At least I know Mike thinks so. I heard him tell Sulley about a book on that which he's been trying to get from the library, but he doesn't remember where exactly he read that. You know. Whatever it is he's looking for."

Don kept silent. Hopefully, he was realizing that his talent was an asset, not a liability. Art was not quite sure how to convey that. He just knew that that was the point.

"There, all done!" he exclaimed, and with a gleeful holler, he jumped up and snatched the picture to turn around and hold it up for Don to have a look. A bit of undried glitter dripped off the paper, but Art did not particularly mind.

Don seemed unwilling to tell him that all he could probably see was an atrocious, green, glittery something, and for a moment, he kept opening and closing his mouth like a strap-toothed goldfish.

But he was not one to lie, either. "Um… what is it?"

Art grinned brightly at the honesty he had counted on. "It's _us_, silly, winning the Scare Games!"

Don's eyes widened, but then he gave a smile. "Ah, yes, I should have seen that. It's beautiful." Another pause. "What's with the fanged elephant in the background?"

Confused, Art turned the picture around to stare at it himself. When had he painted that? "Uh, artistic license," he answered with a shrug. "But no matter, the rest of it is accurate."

Don's smile widened. Art was not entirely sure why, but his friend was practically beaming now. Why had he been down? Whatever, at least he was happy now. "Yes, Arthur, it definitely is. You know, maybe you should show it to the others. I'm sure they'd appreciate it."

Art looked at the picture for a moment longer, then let go of it and watched it float down in a sort of leaf motion to rest among the tubes and brushes. "Nah, they'd appreciate the real thing more."

Don chuckled. Chuckling was good. Chuckling meant he was okay now. "I bet they would. Anyway, do you need help washing off the paint?"

Blinking, Art looked down at himself to find his fur interspersed with a multitude of green splotches of color. For a moment, he considered keeping them as a show of Oozma Kappa solidarity. But he would complicate Mrs. Squibbles's laundry if he smeared his bed sheets with paint. Did that stuff even wash out?

"Sure, thanks," he answered, grinning back at his friend. He did not actually need the help, but he knew Don now felt as if he owed him.

And doing stuff together was more fun, anyway.

* * *

**Note:** All feedback is welcome, but especially on this: If you guessed the motive before it was revealed, I would love to hear at which point you did. ^^


End file.
